


As Dark as the Light's Intense

by Alexander_L



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Character Death, Battle of the Tailtean Plains, Demonic Beasts, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, M/M, Nightmares, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27482977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_L/pseuds/Alexander_L
Summary: A sensitive child who necessity forced to grow into a ruthless man, Ferdinand von Aegir now faces the most brutal battle he has fought yet: the final attack on the Tailtean Plains. As the leader of the vanguard, his strength is needed more than ever, and the only thing more terrifying than the fight itself is the fear of cracking under the pressure to achieve victory at any cost, no matter how exhausted he is.Rated M for violence, depictions of anxiety and PTSD, and mild sexual content.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 21
Kudos: 83





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> This is a departure from my writing style and my usual portrayal of Ferdinand, but I wanted to experiment a bit. 
> 
> The title comes from a favorite song of mine about being afraid your mental health struggles will rise up to haunt you when you're achieving success. It's dramatic, but very relatable to me and reminds me a lot of the kind of fear a character so focused on success like Ferdinand would have.
> 
> _"I run but the shadow follows, as dark as the light's intense  
>  I’m afraid, flying high is terrifying.  
> People say, there’s splendor in that bright light  
> But my growing shadow swallows me and becomes a monster  
> I only go higher and vertigo overtakes me"_
> 
> \- Interlude: Shadow, BTS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand will live up to his own standards or die trying.

When Ferdinand was young, he was never quite sure what it meant when people called him a ‘sensitive child,’ because the meaning changed for each adult that spoke the words. To his mother, it meant that she could share with him her appreciation for the gentle, beautiful things in life, like poetry and music and tending to her cherished rose garden. The words were said with a smile of relief.

He had overheard her talking to a friend of hers once when he was seven or eight years old, saying, “When I found out I was having a boy, I was afraid. I thought he would turn out to be like his… Well, nevermind that. It is a blessing that Ferdie has turned out to be such a sensitive child. He always looks forward to his lessons on the pianoforte and he even wrote a little story the other day about a pegasus that is just precious. Here, read this. It is quite adorable, isn't it?”

Ferdinand had blushed angrily at his mother sharing the story he wrote, but as he eavesdropped a minute longer and heard the praise of the other woman, his anger turned to delight. He had rushed off immediately to his desk with the determination that he would become the greatest writer and poet Adrestria had ever seen.

But the next time he heard the phrase it was from his father and it was not spoken fondly. Duke Aegir had nothing to do with him when he was a small child, insisting that until he was older he was more of a pet than a person and he had no time for pets. When Ferdinand turned twelve and finally gained the attention of his father, his role changed suddenly from his mother’s pride and joy to his father’s disappointment and Ferdinand, being a sensitive child, was as scared as he was bewildered.

This period of time was when the night terrors began, although if the correlation was noticed by any of the adults in his life whose responsibility was to discern such things, it was not addressed. Instead he was prescribed sedative potions and a stricter regimen of education, training, and exercise due to the theory that it was an ‘idle imagination’ that caused such episodes and occupying his mind by staying busy would be an effective cure.

It was not.

With no other recourse available to him, Ferdinand began to remedy the problem himself by trying to figure out what being a sensitive child meant and what parts of himself he needed to change so as not to be labeled as such anymore. It meant spending less time in the music room and the rose garden and more time in the training hall. It meant applying himself harder to his studies of government and history and abandoning the hobby of writing stories entirely. And most of all it meant clamping his hand over his mouth when he woke up whimpering and crying in the middle of the night and lying stock-still in bed staring into the darkness rather than running to his mother to wake her up so she could comfort him.

It meant smiling when he was defeated yet again in the training grounds at Garreg Mach by Edelgard, hauling himself to his feet and loudly demanding a rematch, and going to bed without seeing a healer like he was supposed to for the welts inflicted by the training swords because he believed that defeat was unacceptable and should have consequences.

It meant feeling his stomach plummet and twist with dread when he overheard three devastating words murmured in concern.

_“Unfit for battle.”_

Ferdinand clutched the crisp sterile sheets of the infirmary bed in his fists and felt pulled apart by the competing impulses to cry and to yell. Instead of either, he pushed himself up and leaned against the headboard. With his jaw set in determination, he raised his head to look at Mercedes, who was standing a few paces away whispering with Byleth.

“I believe my fever is gone now,” Ferdinand said, climbing shakily out of bed and getting to his feet. “Instead of taking up a room in the infirmary, I shall retire to my own quarters to rest. Thank you for your care.”

Mercedes gave Byleth a look and she nodded in understanding and left the room.

“Ferdinand, sit,” Mercedes said in a tone that brooked no argument.

She sat next to him as he settled back down and took both of his hands in hers, staring into his reluctant eyes with a look of compassion that made Ferdinand stiffen instinctively because it looked a little too much like pity.

“What were you telling Byleth?” he asked. 

“My concerns, nothing else,” she answered. “I was not suggesting that she order you off the front lines. I was only informing her that if you get worse, it would not be a wise or kind thing to put you out in the field again for a while, at least a few weeks. We do not march on the Tailtean Plains until the end of the month. If you take a reprieve from smaller, less consequential battles and rest, you can-”

“Please,” he interrupted softly. “I asked you to keep this between us."

Mercedes squeezed his hands and replied, “I didn’t think you, Ferdinand von Aegir, would ever tell someone they should shirk their duty.” Her eyes grew sad as she added, “Making a promise over a cup of tea is different from the oath I took as a healer. When you first told me of your nightmares, of course I promised to keep it to myself. But they are harming your health and wellbeing now and I must do my duty as your physician.”

"It was a poisoned spearhead that landed me in here, nothing more."

"A wound you would never have suffered had you not been slowed by sleep-deprivation. I saw you out there. You were barely staying in the saddle. I care about my friends too much to let any of them fight in such a risky state," she said.

Ferdinand clutched her hands tightly, staring down at them with a dismayed expression. "I _will_ conquer this. I promise you! Just tell Byleth I can still fight. I cannot let Edelgard and Hubert down by being a burden. They rely on me to lead the vanguard. I have become essential to our victories on the battlefield. Without me… If I were to… They-"

It was an embarrassing side effect of sleep-deprivation to cry but Ferdinand was too strung out to have control over such things. Tears stung in his eyes and he threw his arms around Mercedes, melting into her steady, comforting embrace.

"All those expectations…" she sighed. "They sure are heavy, aren't they?"

Tears turned to muffled, half-choked sobs and Ferdinand buried his face in the shawl thrown across her shoulders while she stroked his hair and murmured quiet encouragements and solaces.

"I am afraid-" Ferdinand almost left it at that, but the rest of the words poured out in distraught mumbling against the soft shawl. "-that I am losing my mind. I think that I might be going mad, or worse yet that I always have been and only now has it become impossible to ignore."

There were many years when the night terrors left him alone for the most part. Why they had returned now in full force, he did not know. And the not-knowing was deeply unsettling. If one could not understand their own mind, how could they possibly control it? The persona Ferdinand had painstakingly and devotedly built for himself over the course of his adult life relied upon such control. 

“Mercedes,” he whispered. “You cannot tell Hubert.”

“You share a bed with him. How can he not already know of your troubles?” she asked.

Ferdinand’s face flushed and he sniffed, wiping the tears off his cheeks before he could ruin Mercedes’s shawl. “We never spend the night together,” he admitted. “Hubert does much of his work at night and I was all too relieved to oblige when he suggested we keep our… _trysts_ contained to a couple hours in the evening. He likes his privacy and I, unfortunately, need mine.”

“So he doesn’t know about this? You haven’t gone to the person who loves you most for support? That is what people who love you are for, dear. I would never be able to keep on fighting day in and day out if it weren’t for Sylvain.”

He shook his head emphatically, sniffing again. “You cannot mention any of this to him. Please. It is very important to me that he not know. He has enough to worry about. I refuse to burden him with my own shortcomings.”

“Keeping it from him will be a greater burden in the end,” Mercedes warned.

Taking a deep breath, Ferdinand combed his fingers through his hair and tucked it neatly out of his face. Then he dried his eyes on his sleeve, stood up and walked past Mercedes to the door. “Thank you for taking care of me and for listening to me. I am sorry to cause you distress with my stubbornness. But I will rest better in my own room. If my fever returns, I promise to let you know.”

She nodded uneasily. “If you insist. But Ferdinand, listen to me.”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked back at her.

“Tell Hubert,” she said. “Doctor’s orders.”

Since Ferdinand did not believe in speaking promises he did not mean and since he did not know how to explain to her that Hubert’s respect and trust were more important to him than his love, he just hung his head in shame and left without a reply.

His night was fraught with dreams and the hours of strained wakefulness in between them were so filled with anger that when he inevitably fell back asleep and returned to the nightmares, they were more disturbing than before.

Ferdinand wondered the next morning as he brewed coffee to bring to Hubert why such a darkness had ever taken root inside of him.

He wondered as he straddled Hubert in his office and kissed him senseless how he had managed to hide it so well all these years to the point where this keen, observant man likened him to sunlight in the secret letters he wrote to express his devotion better than he could with spoken words.

And as he rode out six days later with his battalion to defend a village beset upon by marauders he wondered when his luck would run out and the exhaustion that dogged his steps would result in another spear in his stomach but one that Mercedes would not be able to heal.

But these futile thoughts vanished the moment the adrenaline of battle set in. The blood of thieving, raping men who required no pity from him washed away the stain of many nightmares in which the violence of his dreams was far less noble. Battle, troubling as it was, at times brought relief.

“This happens to people who have seen the things we have and endured the horrors we have survived. It’s awful, but you’re not alone in experiencing this. Many people do,” Mercedes told him once when, in a moment of weakness and unforgivable honesty, he had told her the disturbing contents of one of his nightmares.

“You’re not the first soldier to struggle to sleep soundly during a war,” Byleth had reassured him in that frank and yet empathetic way of hers upon Ferdinand’s return from the marauder mission. 

Ferdinand had replied the same thing both times:

“Maybe this is normal for soldiers. But I must be better. It is my duty as a noble to be a leader that everyone can trust and rely on. Such weakness is a luxury I do not have.”

Mercedes had comforted him. Byleth, however, was a warrior not a healer.

“I’m giving you a fortnight off duty to rest and you _will_ take it, Ferdinand,” she said firmly. “Your duty isn’t to be perfect. It’s to be strong and that means taking care of problems that are weakening you, not ignoring them. Rest. We need you at your best for the upcoming strike on Faerghus. If your troops can’t carve a path to Dimitri for Hubert to take him down, we will not be able to pull off the swift and decisive win we need. So follow Mercedes’s advice and take care of yourself. Understood?”

“Understood,” he answered. “I will not let you down.”

Byleth patted his shoulder. “You never have.”

It was meant as an encouragement. To Ferdinand, it was another expectation.

He smiled brightly. “Thank you, professor. I never will.”

Byleth nodded and walked away, her back to Ferdinand’s fading smile.

But a fortnight of dodging Hubert’s concerned questions about Ferdinand’s ordered rest, of taking sleeping potions that did not work and of spending long hours in the training grounds with Petra because idleness frayed every fibre of Ferdinand’s being did nothing to unbreak what was broken within him. It deepened the fracture between hopeful days and despairing nights and left Ferdinand’s hands no steadier than before.

A fortnight was not enough time to even start figuring out how to repair a problem that had been festering behind determinedly shut doors in his mind for fourteen years.

Those fourteen years culminated in the day they marched on the Tailtean Plains.

On this day Ferdinand’s mind, that had felt trapped within the past during the forced contemplation of his time off duty, suddenly became anchored in the present by the urgent knowledge that this day would decide the course of the war and the fate of Fódlan for lifetimes to come.

It was not because he had not already been aware of the fact. It was because fact became feeling when Hubert held him tightly in his arms as they huddled beneath blankets and furs in his tent.

“Promise me you won’t be reckless,” he demanded.

Taking Hubert’s face in his hands, Ferdinand kissed him.

“I love you,” he whispered against Hubert’s lips as they pulled apart at last, breathless and wanting far more. “I love you more than anything in this world and I promise I will not let you down.”

“I love you too,” Hubert answered, with a low, husky groan as he rolled on top of Ferdinand and kissed his neck.

Ferdinand ran his hands across Hubert’s body until they came to clutch at his hips and tug them closer to buck against his own. “I know now is hardly a proper time to, but Hubert may I-”

“Yes,” Hubert interrupted him, yearning and relentless as he kissed every inch of exposed skin he could find. He pulled away to hastily tug off his clothes and Ferdinand did the same, slow grace sacrificed for swift relief.

Their desperate tumble under the blankets as they tried to ward off both the chill in the air and the ache in their hearts left only a few moments afterwards to hold each other and whisper the tender things that were easiest to say after sex. Then the unavoidableness of the dawn drove them out of the tent to meet up with the others once they were armed and armored.

Faerghus lashed out at the Adrestrians with stinging sleet and rain. But even with the ground churned to mud beneath the slipping hooves of their horses and even with their armor chafing and throats hoarse from yelling over the roar of the wind, Edelgard’s army marched onto the plains undeterred.

They stopped at the southern edge of the field while their wyvern scouts took stock of the situation and Ferdinand dismounted to walk over to Hubert for a couple last stolen moments with him before the battle. He knew that Hubert was far more worried than usual when he broke one of his rules and grabbed Ferdinand by the collar, yanking him close to kiss him fiercely despite the people watching them. 

Love swelled so achingly strong in Ferdinand’s heart that tears came to his eyes and he was grateful that the rain hid them. 

“We are going to end this war today and we would never have made it this far if it were not for your tireless work, your strength and your brilliance, Hubert,” he said with a smile that he hoped would convey his adoration even better than his words. “You and I do not compliment each other enough, so I want to make sure you know how proud I am to stand by your side.”

Hubert cradled Ferdinand’s head in his hands and stared back at him with such tenderness that Ferdinand vowed silently to remember this look for the rest of his life, for it was moments like this that sustained him through his darkest hours.

“I am proud to stand beside you as well,” Hubert replied in a choked voice. “I trust that you know with certainty that you are loved deeper and more devotedly than any man has been loved before.” He cleared his throat awkwardly and broke eye contact, visibly discomforted by the intensity of his impulsive confession. “Now let us finish this. I won’t breathe easy until I see you safe and our enemies dead.”

“Do not spare any worried thoughts for me. Our victory is assured. I will make it so.”

Hubert often smiled slightly at the bold and bolstering assertions Ferdinand made before a fight but this time he just met his eyes with a searching look. “We all will,” he said. “To think it is entirely up to you to do so is nothing but conceit and folly.”

Ferdinand was spared thinking of a reply by the wyvern scouts swooping down to inform them of the lay of the land and the positioning of the Kingdom troops.

“Ferdinand,” Mercedes said, catching his arm before he could mount his horse again.

He turned and offered her an encouraging smile. “Yes?”

She reached up to brush his dripping hair out of his face and braid it tightly behind his head. “Can’t have it getting in your way and it’d be a shame if it got hacked off by a sword,” she said.

“You look very elegant with your short hair. Perhaps I would too,” he replied in an attempt to bring a smile to her solemn face. “Although I do not think I will look as fetching in that little bonnet as you do.”

She did smile faintly, but the expression vanished as she said in a strained voice, “You’ll be facing Dedue out there. Please, if you can… give him a quick death. I know he would never surrender. So make his end merciful. Let him die with dignity.”

The smile faded from Ferdinand’s lips too and he nodded. “You have my word.”

“Thank you,” she said so quietly he barely heard her.

“Look after Sylvain. Today will not be easy for him.”

“I will.”

He hugged her then climbed up into the saddle and looked over at Hubert, who was too busy assembling his force of dark mages to notice Ferdinand’s gaze. For a moment, Ferdinand lingered, taking comfort in observing the strong, confident grace of Hubert’s motions and the commanding tone of his voice. 

Never in his life had he met a man like Hubert, one who bore such fascinating dualities of reserve and passion, ruthless pragmatism and self-sacrificing kindness. Never in his life had he dared to think he would be loved by someone the way Hubert loved him. What he would do to be worthy of such love… 

“Today we end centuries of tyranny!” Edelgard shouted from atop her wyvern, hovering above the troops with her axe held up to the sky. “Today we have our final victory!”

The cheers and yells of the soldiers almost drowned out Edelgard as she yelled, “TODAY WE WIN!”

In the pandemonium, Hubert’s eyes strayed to Ferdinand’s finally and he gave him a reassuring nod. Ferdinand smiled at him triumphantly and raised his weapon, lending his own battle cry to the cacophony.

Then the vanguard plunged into the shallow river, struggling through it and up the muddy banks onto the field where their enemy awaited them.

The screams of the ensuing battle and the deafening clash of weapons set Ferdinand ablaze with energy in a way that nothing else could. The shackles of his exhaustion and fear fell away and, unleashed at last, he surged across the battlefield, leaving a path of carnage behind him with the vicious ease of a scythe through wheat.

His father, who had carved into him with cutting words the idea that a man must never back down or accept defeat, never once held a sword in his weak noble hands. His mother, who had wanted to raise a gentle son, had never lived through a war when gentle sons were the first to fall in battle. Neither of them could have foreseen when they tried so hard to mold Ferdinand in opposing ways to bring glory to the name Aegir that he would do so by screaming it on the battlefield and that enemy soldiers would hear it ring in their ears seconds before they fell beneath the trampling hooves of Ferdinand’s warhorse with the Spear of Assal slicing through their bodies.

Whether his father would have felt pride or fear had he lived to see Ferdinand on this day, whether his mother would have wept, Ferdinand would never know. And the beautiful thing about battle was that no such thoughts plagued him in the heat of the moment. Maybe they would cross his mind in the middle of one of his sleepless nights, but for a brief reprieve, he was free of them as his focus narrowed to one thing and one thing only: victory.

Ferdinand’s battalion swept unstoppably forward until they began to near the hill upon which Dimitri waited. It felt almost too easy; he had expected a more challenging fight.

Then he caught sight of a familiar flash of white hair and as he fought his way closer he saw Dedue with two soldiers standing beside him, each holding a glowing orb that at first glance looked like magic until Ferdinand realized the truth with a stab of dread.

“Reconvene!” he yelled at the few soldiers that had outpaced him. “Return to formation!”

His troops turned to struggle their way back to Ferdinand but some faltered as an unearthly wail pierced the air. Every head on the battlefield turned to watch in terror as the crest stones Dedue’s soldiers wielded tore apart their fragile human bodies and transformed them into giant demonic beasts with dead eyes and gnashing teeth. 

In the distance, Ferdinand heard Dimitri shout something at Dedue to which the man answered, “If we lose here, the Kingdom falls! It's our only hope!”

“Defensive formation!” Ferdinand ordered his troops as his horse reared wildly and shied away from the demonic beasts. He glanced around the field and saw Sylvain and Caspar both fighting towards him to support him with their battalions. 

Enemy pegasus knights harried them, slowing their approach, and Ferdinand knew that he had to hold off the beasts from charging across the river towards Edelgard and Byleth, lest they be pincered as they fought the forces of the church.

This was his responsibility after all – to be a shield to the emperor and make space on the battlefield for her and Byleth and Hubert to achieve their aims. And if there was any belief that had survived in the shifting ideological tides of his life, it was that a noble lived and died by their duty.

Reining his frightened horse into control, Ferdinand turned to face the demonic beasts.

He had faced them many times before and knew well what it felt like to be pierced by their claws and rent by their serrated teeth. He had only fought demonic beasts a handful of times in real life but they had been at the core of his nightmares for years. He was intimately acquainted with the visceral horror of standing before a predator and realizing that even armed with great weapons he was still prey. Even as a child, long before he could have imagined such creatures existed, his dreams were haunted by other imagery evoking a similar sense of powerlessness.

It was the familiarity of the scene that staggered him for a moment and as he blinked furiously and stared through the sheets of rain at the charging beasts, he wondered if he had finally gone mad and lost the ability to discern dreams from reality.

For one perilous moment, the hands that held the Spear of Assal trembled.

The beasts roared and turned their rampage upon his soldiers.

“I am Ferdinand von Aegir!” he screamed, spurring his horse forward, raising his spear. “You want your victory? Come take it from me! I will not back down!”

The splash of brilliant golden hair amidst the muddied gray of the battlefield, the Spear of Assal aglow with the power of Cichol, and the fiercely shouted words drew the attention of both beasts and their red eyes locked onto Ferdinand.

By the time the first monster fell, Ferdinand was all but incoherent, arms shaking with weariness, throat choked with the stench of demonic blood. By the time he and his battalion struck down the second, his head was reeling, mind drifting.

Then Dedue raised his crest stone and Ferdinand knew that there was no longer death with dignity. 

As a demonic beast larger than any he had seen before loomed over the battlefield, Ferdinand suddenly found himself on his hands and knees in the muck, the breath knocked from his lungs as his terrified horse fled and his body, too exhausted to stay in the saddle, fell.

He spat the mud from his mouth, wiped it from his face with his blood-drenched sleeve, and looked up at the beast.

His tether to reality strained, frayed.

Snapped.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry guys I've just been in a really angsty headspace recently and kind of wrote this in a haze. It's kinda a weird narrative style and I think I prefer my more subjective, stream-of-consciousness style but I'm trying to try new things!


	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert finds out the cost of victory.

Vestras did not fail.

“You want to know why you lost?” Hubert’s father had asked him when he was ten years old and dragged back home after his futile attempt to rescue Edelgard from being taken away to Faerghus. 

Hubert knew even at that age not to reply to rhetorical questions. He had just clenched his bloodied, magic-burnt hands into fists and waited.

“Because there was never a chance of you winning. The lesson to be learned from this is not to try to find ways to beat an entire host of soldiers single-handed. It is to know that such a fight is folly, and folly is unforgivable. Only fight battles you know you can win. Subvert those you cannot. Never tread too close to the possibility of defeat. Do you understand me?”

Another rhetorical question. Hubert understood and did not repeat his mistakes.

By the time he struck down the corrupted husk of the man who was once Dimitri, King of Faerghus, defeat had become such a distant memory he had all but forgotten its taste. Victory was sickening in its own way, of course. Its flavor rested foul and bitter in his mouth as he watched the violet flames of dark magic lick at Dimitri’s dead body and heard the din of battle begin to quiet behind him. But it was a different sort of wretchedness than defeat and he would accept its discomfort willingly.

“Hubert!”

At the sound of Sylvain’s distraught voice behind him, sorrow tightened in his chest. He thought he knew the source of the despair in Sylvain’s tone until he turned slowly and saw.

“You know a healing spell, right?” Sylvain gasped, stumbling as he carried over Ferdinand’s limp body. So covered in mud and gore as it was, Hubert only knew it was Ferdinand because of the streaks of vibrant gold visible in his long hair through the dirt. “Mercedes had to fall back. I can’t carry him that far. Please… I-”

Sylvain collapsed to his knees, heaving for breath, and stared up pleadingly at him.

Hubert’s heart plummeted and he remembered.

_ “As horrific as if I’d lost all my limbs,” _ was the only way he had thought of to describe the feeling the time he had admitted to Edelgard his grief when she was taken by Those Who Slither in the Dark.

A curse escaped his lips in a breathless, panicked gasp as he rushed forward and dropped down to his knees in the mud beside Sylvain, drawing upon every shred of magic left in him and forcing it to channel into the glowing light of faith magic instead of the deadly flames of reason.

Ferdinand’s wounds were too numerous to even know where to begin and Hubert faltered for a moment, terrified, overwhelmed. He glanced up at Sylvain and saw tears streaked across his face.

“Hurry!” Sylvain pleaded.

“I…” 

Vestras did not fail.

Hubert placed his hands on Ferdinand’s chest, the rational part of his mind that was thankfully still functioning telling him to make sure his lungs and heart were healed first. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the recovery spell and released his magic into Ferdinand’s body, feeling it fuse back together what was torn and purify what was poisoned by the dirt and grime of battle infecting his wounds.

“How did this happen?” he asked.

“He went after Ded-” Sylvain corrected himself. “-a demonic beast on his own.”

“Without his battalion?”

“Yes.”

“Just him? Alone?” 

“I couldn’t get to him in time. I tried. I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t apologize for his folly,” Hubert interrupted, teeth clenched, lips trembling in a snarl.

His hands shook and the light sputtered out from his hands as his magic waned. He had repaired some of the worst damage, but more remained, and Ferdinand’s loss of blood was significant and frightening.

“Keep pressure applied to the wound on his stomach,” Hubert said as he stood up, head spinning with the exertion of pushing his magic this far. But he had enough for a couple warp spells. “I will go get Lindhardt.”

Lindhardt was found by the stream, retching into the trampled grass and clutching his side, pale as death.

“Are you injured?” Hubert asked.

“No, but-”

Grabbing his arm, Hubert dragged him back to Sylvain and Ferdinand with a gut-wrenching warp spell. Lindhardt staggered and swore with an agonized expression as he looked between Dimitri’s corpse and Ferdinand’s battered body.

“I can’t raise people from the dead,” he said, coughing and clamping his hand over his mouth.

“He’s not dead,” Sylvain said. “Lin, please, Hubert stabilized him, but he still needs more spells. Can you…?”

Lindhardt crouched down beside Ferdinand’s body and closed his eyes, reaching out with faith magic to examine his wounds.

“Fuck,” he swore again. 

“Can you heal him?” Hubert demanded.

“I can try but he’s in bad shape. He’s lost too much blood and his organs look like someone-” Linhardt gagged before he could finish whatever metaphor he was going to make.

Hubert watched in growing hysteria. His understanding of healing magic was enough to know that ripping his own heart and lungs out to offer Ferdinand was not going to help, but the panic pounding in his mind was such that he briefly considered the idea.

Victory at any cost, he had told himself as he suffered the assistance of the vile Agarthans, as he tallied up the casualties of the war, as he fought beside Edelgard ready at any moment to give his own life to protect her. It was a trite phrase and he hated himself for ever uttering it.

Some costs were unbearable.

“Tell me he is going to live,” he growled at Linhardt, who did not reply.

“Tell me he is going to live,” he asked Mercedes days later, as she sat at Ferdinand’s bedside in the infirmary they constructed amongst the rubble of conquered Fhirdiad. “Tell me that we did not win this war only for him to never know it.”

“He is doing better,” she said, brushing Ferdinand’s tangled hair out of his face and braiding it loosely. His skin was still ashy pale and even the flush of his fever did not warm it enough to make him look alive.

Hubert sat down next to her wearily and hung his head in his hands, fingers gripping at the roots of his hair in frustration. He felt a hand on his back and stiffened instinctively. But Mercedes did not withdraw it, gently rubbing soothing circles against the tense ridges of his shoulders. After a second, he relaxed enough to accept the comfort, although it made his heart ache more keenly.

“When he wakes up-”

“If,” Hubert mumbled.

“ _ When _ he wakes up,” she said in her stern sweet way, “you two must speak honestly with each other, for both your sakes.”

“What do you mean?”

Mercedes hesitated and Hubert imagined a thousand terrifying reasons why in the moment before she continued. 

“He has been keeping a part of himself locked away from you because he loves you too much to worry you, and because more than anything he did not want to let you down. If you love him, you will try to understand.”

“I do understand him,” Hubert replied, “better than anyone.”

She sighed. “Then he must really be good at keeping up appearances. I guess he’s had years of practice.”

Mercedes rested her arm across Hubert’s shoulders and gave him a reassuring hug, her cap brushing against his cheek as she leaned in and the smell of lavender and vulneries that clung to her calming his anxious heart a little. Then she let go of him and stood up.

“What is it that I don’t know?” Hubert asked her before she could leave. “Tell me. I need to understand.”

“So that you can assess his weaknesses?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

Mercedes was not a person that could be lied to.

“So that I can love him better and never fail him again,” Hubert answered with the kind of sincerity that made him shift uncomfortably.

Sitting back down, Mercedes said, “Listen then.”

Weaker than you realized and stronger than you thought, was what she told him. And by the time she was done, Hubert felt daunted by the weight of it all.

“He should never have gone into that battle in that state,” he said. “If I had known, I would never have let him.”

“That’s why he didn’t tell you.”

“If he wasn’t so damn set on living up to this ridiculous standard of-” Hubert began then immediately stopped and calmed himself. “I held him to it as much as everyone did.”

“I failed him too,” Mercedes said softly. “I let him go. I thought he was recovering. I didn’t realize that he was getting worse. But he has time to rest now. He will be himself again when he wakes up. He is resilient and warm-hearted. He won’t let himself stay lost in his own head forever.”

“I must attend to Her Majesty, but I will return this evening. Please, if he wakes up or if anything changes, send for me,” Hubert said.

“I will,” she promised.


	3. Outro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One war ends; another begins.

A strange thing, to have dreamt of people he once knew and respected transforming into beasts on the battlefield and ripping his body to pieces. Ferdinand had had similar dreams, but this one was different. Most of his nightmares he could recall quite clearly upon waking, but this one was an unsettling haze in his memory yet a visceral pain in his body.

He shifted onto his side and opened his eyes. Immediately his breath caught as he saw Hubert lying beside him on the bed, his hair a tangled black mess hiding half of his face and his breath rhythmic with the peace of sleep. He had never fallen asleep beside Ferdinand before. He looked quite disheveled and exhausted, and yet he had never looked more beautiful than he did in this moment, nor so real and human and present.

He considered waking him just so he could kiss him and tell him how wonderful it was to have him in his bed, but Ferdinand decided against it. Hubert needed his rest and he had no wish to break whatever spell had fallen over him and caused him to stay the night.

As he glanced around the unfamiliar infirmary room, dread began to settle over Ferdinand. He looked down at his body, seeing no fresh bandages, which meant he had been here for quite some time. He was dressed in a simple shirt and trousers and as he lifted the collar to examine his body, he saw deep, vicious scars across his chest and stomach like the claws of a giant beast had torn him apart.

Images from his nightmare clarified. His breath quickened with panic.

Even that subtle shift woke Hubert and the next thing Ferdinand knew Hubert’s hands were cradling his face and his eyes, so unbearably full of love and concern, were searching his expression as Hubert gasped, “You’re awake!”

“Yes,” Ferdinand replied, stunned.

Hubert opened his mouth to say something more then closed it as words failed him. He gathered Ferdinand into his arms carefully and pressed his lips against his forehead.

“Hubert?” Ferdinand asked but the only reply he got was a breathless curse that somehow sounded more relieved and joyful than curses usually did.

“I must have gotten quite bruised up if you are so worried over me,” Ferdinand said with a faint laugh. “It is unlike you to be so concerned.”

“You all but died,” Hubert murmured, hiding his face in the crook of Ferdinand’s neck and holding him a little closer. 

“Where is your faith in me, my dear?” Ferdinand said. “You know that among my many talents, evading death is one of my most impressive.”

“Don’t make light of this,” Hubert replied, still not pulling back to look him in the eyes. Instead he kissed Ferdinand’s neck and combed his fingers through his hair, his affection gentle but confusingly desperate.

“What is it that you want me to say then?”

“The truth,” Hubert replied.

Ferdinand pushed him away just so he could study the look in Hubert’s eyes. He was troubled to find it guarded in a way that spoke either of resentment or fear. It was always difficult to tell with Hubert, for his emotions, if visible at all, ofttimes manifested in complicated ways. Years of studying them taught Ferdinand some of their nuances but he knew there would always be facets of the man he loved that he had yet to understand.

“I have always told you the truth,” he answered. “I thought my incapacity to keep my thoughts and feelings unspoken was one of the things that used to aggravate you so about me.”

Hubert’s neutral expression took on the faintest edge of strained tightness. “‘Relentless optimism,’” he said. “The first time you ever noticed that I was trying to pay you a compliment was when I told you how much I admired that trait in you, how unparalleled it was. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do. It was quite alarming.”

“At that time I did not fully comprehend the extent of your relentlessness, nor the toll of your optimism. I hope you will forgive me for my oversight. It is unlike me to be unobservant. But I suppose I have always been blinded when it comes to you,” Hubert said and slipped his hand behind Ferdinand’s head, tangling his fingers in his hair as he leaned in to kiss him lightly. He rested his forehead against Ferdinand’s and exhaled a tensely held breath. “You are a fool, Ferdinand, and despite all my best efforts, I am as well.”

For a long moment, Ferdinand was quiet, pieces of memory coming together to form the vaguest of understanding.

“Hubert,” he said at last. “What happened on the Tailtean Plains?”

“You broke. And you nearly broke me.”

There were many grand rooms in the palace of Enbarr fit for the newly-appointed Prime Minister but he chose none of them despite his reputed love for splendor. He chose a small chamber on the eastern side of the palace that was hardly more than a bedchamber and sitting room combined and whose one appeal was that a door in the sitting room opened up to a walled garden which cyprus trees sheltered from any outside view.

Ferdinand was a military man who valued order but he was also a country boy who grew up among rambling hills and forests. This private sanctum of his was tended to in the spirit of the latter. Narrow paths led through overgrown beds of herbs, ferns and wild roses, a far cry from the glass-domed manicured gardens of a noble. 

It was its own microcosm of vibrant wilderness, cared for diligently and yet allowed to grow free and untamed. In the rare hours Ferdinand was not found at his desk working, he could be found there, sitting on the grass with a book or sometimes even asleep amid the sprays of lavender and mint, unbothered by the bees that hummed by to investigate the flowers and unheeding of the sunlight that would paint freckles across every exposed inch of his skin and leave a burn to redden his nose and cheeks.

“I thought the main benefit of not being on the march for war anymore was that one no longer had reason to sleep on the ground,” Hubert said as he picked lavender buds and sprigs of grass from Ferdinand’s tousled hair and glared in annoyance at a honeybee that buzzed too close.

Ferdinand blinked sleepily and caught Hubert’s hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Do not disparage my sleeping habits when you are often discovered slumped over your desk with ink smeared across your face.”

Hubert swiped his sleeve across his cheek defensively, even though there was no trace of ink there at the moment.

“There is much work to be done,” he muttered.

Yawning, Ferdinand plucked a mint leaf and rubbed it between his fingers to release its refreshing aroma into the air. His mind fell pensive into places darker than it should in such an idyllic environment. “Do you ever-”

“Consider just leaving you in this garden and letting you startle the gardeners in the morning when they dump a watering can on you?” Hubert supplied.

Ferdinand scowled at him, a gesture that had the opposite effect intended and caused a fond smile to break across Hubert’s lips.

He had been going to ask if Hubert ever missed the days of the war, when distraction could be bought with adrenaline and bloodshed. Perhaps he would have skirted around the matter for a bit because it was a grim one to ask in the lovely daylight. But he would have asked it eventually because if there was anyone he could speak such thoughts around it was Hubert.

But Hubert lay down on the grass and hummed a song quietly, closing his eyes and tucking his arms beneath his head, and he was too beautiful to say grim things to. Ferdinand would say them later, in the middle of the night likely when he startled awake from one of his nightmares and Hubert would get up to make him a cup of tea laced with the calming potions Mercedes brewed that quieted the clamor in his head and slowed the pounding of his heart.

“If you do not stop snoring, I will be forced to sleep out here in my garden and wake up with a crick in my back and a chill from the dew,” Ferdinand said, poking Hubert in the stomach playfully.

Hubert huffed and rolled onto his side, facing away from Ferdinand. Curling up around him, Ferdinand tucked his arm securely around Hubert’s waist and pulled him close to his chest, burying his face in Hubert’s curly hair and pressing a kiss to the back of his head.

“Prime Minister von Aegir,” a polite voice said behind them and they both sat up and turned around to find a messenger holding out a letter.

Thanking the man, Ferdinand took the missive and opened it, perusing its contents while Hubert read it over his shoulder.

“And so our temporary peace ends,” Ferdinand said after the messenger left and they were alone again.

Hubert, who had known longer than any of them that this was coming, did not reply. He merely took the letter and clasped it between his hands, reducing it to ash with a fire spell.

“We assemble our troops to march on their stronghold then?” Ferdinand said.

“This will be a different kind of battle than any we’ve ever known,” Hubert warned. “The tactics that defeated the Kingdom will not work against  _ them _ .”

“Then we will devise new ones. You and I and Edelgard have conquered a continent. We can win this last war, no matter what fell things we will find in their fortress under the ground.”

Hubert hesitated and Ferdinand suddenly understood why it was that so much work he thought he should be doing ended up as someone else’s responsibility as of late and why, ever since the end of the war, he had been given so much more time to rest than he expected or even wanted.

“Hubert,” he said warily. “You cannot consider for one moment asking me to stay behind.”

Hubert’s averted gaze returned to Ferdinand’s, his eyes frank and unyielding. “Someone needs to defend Enbarr in the case of a counterstrike.”

Clenching his hand into a fist, Ferdinand struggled to keep his composure, unwilling to raise his voice when Hubert remained so calm and controlled before him.

“I am not-” Each word he spoke slowly, endeavoring to measure them lest they betray too much of his frustration. “-fragile.”

“Even the strongest steel can break with enough force exerted against it,” Hubert replied. “You are not fragile, but neither are you invulnerable. It has not been long enough since our last battle for you to-”

“You berated yourself for expecting too much from me,” Ferdinand interrupted. “But I would rather you expect me to carry the entire weight of the world upon my back than have you expect  _ nothing _ of me.”

“You won us a war, Ferdinand. The tide of every battle for five years was turned because of your relentless determination and courage. And it drove you mad enough to senselessly throw your life away!”

“Better I had died in the mud in Faerghus than live to see your respect for me wither.”

“You think I would let Her Majesty lead troops into battle if she were ill or injured?” Hubert argued. “I would never allow such a liability to herself or to our cause. You think I do not respect you when I treat you with the same care?”

Ferdinand stared at Hubert as if he had been slapped in the face. “A liability,” he repeated. “That is what you think of me.”

Hubert did not contradict him.

Ferdinand stood up.

“Not knowing one’s own limits is the greatest liability,” Hubert said as he turned away. 

Ferdinand stopped.

“Is that something your father taught you?” he asked, recalling a story Hubert once told him of his childhood.

“Yes,” Hubert answered frankly.

“You hated your father.”

“And you hated yours. Yet you carry about his words inside you too. You always will.”

As Hubert got to his feet, Ferdinand turned around to face him, the tumultuous emotions burning in his chest stilling slightly.

“My father also taught me that emotional attachment to anyone was weakness and that implicit trust for anyone, even oneself, was unacceptable,” Hubert added. “So fuck my father. And fuck yours.”

“I am coming with you to Shambhala,” Ferdinand said, refusing to back down.

Hubert stepped closer. “On one condition.”

“And who are you to set conditions upon my decisions?”

“I am the man you love and who loves you,” Hubert replied. “My condition is that you turn to me when you are struggling so that I may support you.”

“I do not need-”

One last step closer and Hubert stopped Ferdinand’s arguments with a kiss, firm and fervent, and Ferdinand unclenched his fists so that he could take Hubert’s face in his hands and kiss him back deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this strange disjointed story i had to yank out of my head because it kept rattling around in there until I wrote it!
> 
> Want to talk about Ferdinand & Hubert and anything else? Hit me up on Twitter @lalexanderwrite


End file.
